All I ever heard in church was “God agrees with me”. How they were right and I was wrong, cos “God agrees with me”. No matter what the subject, What the decade, What the town – This world was full of sinners, And they all were going down ! If only we would listen To each humble, pious gent – For only they could understand What Jesus really meant ! No matter how opposing were their views, Old God would not refuse – He’d back them up – he always does – Their pocket referee. So all I ever learned it church was “God agrees with me !”
I want to hear less of Uranus, That big gassy body found in the Bath. You see, you’re sniggering already ! It’s a noble planet, it’s not a cheap laugh ! Why use the Roman name of the Greek ? ‘Ouranos’ sounds not so silly. Or better yet, let’s see more of ‘Caelus’ For the methane found by the Willy. That’s Wilhelm Herschel, the man who slapped it Into the solar system. And named it after King George the Third – When he saw royal buttocks, he kissed ’em ! From its nether regions, this constant hot air Gets so petty, and I want it to stop – I want to see less of this childish smut, Or the pressure will make it go pop.
Urban Planning for Urbane Planets
You can’t build Uranus Circus in Bath – At least, not by that name. A quirk of language is having a laugh, And we all have a smirk in the game.
Uranus was discovered in 1781 (11781 HE), though it had been unknowingly sighted several times, possibly as early as Hipparchus in 9873 HE. This was the first time that the concept of there being a new planet had ever occurred to anyone, and there was no reliable naming convention to guide them. Yes, the ‘prehistoric’ planets all bore the names of Roman gods, but was this new object really another one just like them, or should it be demarked as something different ?
Indeed, although Uranus was proposed as a name within a year (and the equally-newly-discovered element Uranium so named in its honour), consensus around it wasn’t achieved until some seventy years later, and meanwhile other proposals included Hershel, Cybele, and even Neptune. But at least the eventual winner was considerably better than that proposed by its discoverer – Georgium Sidus (or King George’s Star). I mean, it’s not a star, is it ? Next you’ll be naming a chunk of rock an asteroid…
Award me no Oscar, Bedeck me no Grammy – Your platitudes bore me, Your clapping is clammy. Nobels are for losers, Don’t grovel and crawl – Your Emmys are empty, And Pulitzers pall. So spare me your trinkets, Your Tony or Bafta – Just pay me with sales, And reward me with laughter. Pray, do not insult me With Knighthoods and gongs – If you wish to do honour, Keep singing my songs.
To the gloves that leapt from my pocket, To the brolly that stayed on the train – You wanted freedom, so go out and rock it ! We never shall meet again. I hope you’re not in the gutter, Or locked in the lost-and-found – For why should my loss be turned into clutter, That benefits no-one around ? I hope you are roaming distant lands, Passed-on as your comfort spreads – I hope you are warming worthier hands, And sheltering fairer heads.
Self-seedling, settler-sprout – A start-up venture risk-taker, Pushing-through and on the scout, You upward-mover, windy-shaker. What will you become, young bud ? Are you a goer or a dud ? So little green, and so much mud – Watch out ! I hear there’s slugs about, I fear this is no easy acre.
One lone leaf, and you’re a grass, Or bulb, or orchid, or a palm. But two, and you’re the other class – They’re both an embryonic farm. So what will you become, new shoot ? Will you grow tall, will you bear fruit ? So little leaved, but taking root – Well lass, let’s meet at Michelmas, To greet you once you’re safe from harm.
February can’t say farewell Without one final trap – A week of warm, then a week of hell, And the bitter cold goes snap. Winter can never yield to Spring Without a parting shot – A week of ease, then a week of sting, To see that he’s not forgot.
A still from It’s A Wonderful Life. That’s us, at the back.
All the World’s a Soundstage
We are the redshirts, the unnamed extras Who maybe get a line or two – We’re barked at once by assistant-directors, We hit our marks and leave on cue, But won’t be back next week, it’s true – We only get one day in the sun. We won’t make the credits, we’re not in the crew, And when we hear cut we know we’re done.
We are the parents and colleagues and friends Who get to star in little shows – The kind that never starts or ends, But runs forever, where plots are slow. We haven’t got many watching, we know, And the scripts aren’t great, but they’re often fun – It’s not that bad, and the parts all grow, Until we’re cancelled, one-by-one.
It seems churlish to say how much I dislike It’s A Wonderful Life, but it does have the decently to be conveniently out-of-copywrite. And let’s face it, that film has made an awful lot of people very happy. So I really should just shut up.
Nothing spoken, nothing tensed, Or nothing sharply out-of-phase, But something that is slowly sensed, A re-tuned hum, a distant haze, That draws me daily through the maze With more for than agenst.
Nothing solid, nothing whole, Or nothing with a cutting edge, But something with a little soul, A knowing twinge, a gut-felt hedge, That walks me out upon the ledge With just enough control.
This illustration seems to come from The Burke Museum, but alas I have no idea who drew it.
Limb-Slungs & Beam-Shanks
Some daddy-longlegs are spiders in cellars, And some daddy-longlegs are leg-craning flies. Some are strange scorpings who walk in the harvest, But all have more leg than they should for their size. Some daddy-longlegs are tip-toeing fellers, And some daddy-longlegs are mummies-on-stilts. Some have evolved from their cousins the farthest, But all are as lanky as when they were built.
Adults, parents, they all say the same – That my love is just puppies, is all. This is my first crush, my first move in the game, And to fall in love just means I’m gonna fall. Sixteen, they say, that’s nothing, This is just a beta test – This girl, this guy, is yesterday tomorrow. They say, don’t talk of loving When I’m lonely and obsessed – It’s only right I have to suffer sorrow. Neophyte, dilettante, call me what you will, But just don’t tell me I’m practicing a skill !
Adults, parents, they’re quick to exclaim That my love is a see-saw, you know ? They won’t meet my steady, won’t even learn their name, When they soon need to forget old so-and-so. Sixteen, they say, is nothing, This is just experience – A chance for some rite-of-passage fun. Well, I may be new to loving, But it’s still my present tense – And I have to think that this one is the one. Fledgling, tenderfoot, call me ingenue, But I’ll break my heart myself, no thanks to you !
Rhyming Couplets 